A Cuppa Tea and an Aspirin (32 page)

Before going to the pawnbroker to try to buy herself some sort of a short coat, she decided to go through Bridie's box of clothes to see if something of hers might be suitable.

Of latter years, she had often ‘borrowed' garments from Kathleen's box to pawn when she was short of money. Kathleen usually raged uselessly: she then consoled herself with the thought that soon she would leave home and strike out for
herself. She always demanded that they be retrieved before the end of the week, which did not invariably happen.

Bridie was different and, as she grew up, Martha had become very wary of her. She was small but she was also vicious and ruthless.

Kathleen had once ‘borrowed' a blouse from her and had been unmercifully beaten up by her smaller sister. While Martha screamed at them both to stop, Bridie had even snatched down Patrick's docker's hook from its resting place on the mantelpiece and threatened to tear her sister's face with it.

Kathleen had fled to the comparative safety of the next court.

Now that Bridie was gone, at least temporarily in her mother's view, she felt free to rummage in her big cardboard box, the top of which had always been kept firmly closed by its owner, with
KEEP OUT
scrawled on it. Even if it did not hold a suitable jacket, there might be something pawnable in it, which would save her using housekeeping money to buy herself a heavy work coat.

On the top of the pile of clothing was a bright-red dance dress, princess style, which Martha had, once or twice, seen the girl wear when she said she was going to a dance.

Underneath it lay a pair of patent leather high-heeled shoes. There was also a very nice blue macintosh, a couple of blouses with wickedly low V necks and, lastly, a tweed skirt with matching jacket.

Martha tried on the jacket. It felt nice and she was sad that she had no mirror to see what she looked like in it. It also went onto the pawnbroker's pile because it was certainly not thick enough for the outdoors in winter. She sighed as she put it down: she had never in her adult life worn anything but a thick serge skirt and a series of black blouses under her shawl.

There was also a small box which held a couple of pairs of glittering diamanté earrings.

‘Strewth, she didn't half have money to spend!' muttered an amazed Martha, as she destined these also for pawning.

When she undid the fent in which she had wrapped the clothes, the pawnbroker looked doubtfully at the collection of new-looking garments. Martha Connolly rarely brought in hard-to-obtain clothing like this: the garments might be stolen.

Martha noted his reaction and lied quickly, ‘Me daughter's bin called up – and everything'll be too small for her afore she comes home. She looks proper nice in her uniform.'

The pawnbroker made a face: he could imagine the family row when the daughter returned on her first leave.

He opened the little box of earrings, picked one out and peered at it. He then put it back into its box and dumped it in front of Martha. He said disparagingly, ‘Woolworths. They're not worth nothing to me.'

Martha was very disappointed. She had had a sudden hope that the jewellery might be a valuable gift from one of Bridie's admirers. She reluctantly stuffed the box into her pocket.

She was agreeably surprised, however, when the pawnbroker gave her ten shillings for the clothing.

She said, ‘Now I want to buy a working jacket for meself. I got meself a job, working outside.'

She went joyfully home with a man's heavy tweed jacket with a generous collar. She wore it until the end of the war when men came home to reclaim their jobs, and, as Martha succinctly put it, women were back on the rubbish dump.

Most of the mixed crew of working-class women amongst whom she found herself were wives or sweethearts of skilled men, and the finer grades of snobbery were already established. Martha ranked as the very bottom. She was to all of them a dirty, uncouth Roman Catholic from the docks. It was
said that she could not even read or write. She stank and was probably verminous. As far as possible, they shunned her. Even in the company canteen, she ate by herself, unless the café was so crowded that sharing a table became a necessity. Surrounded, as she had been, by neighbours similar to herself, she did not care about her fellow workers, except for odd spurts of carefully suppressed indignation, because they, too, could be quite foul-mouthed. ‘They don't know nothing,' she muttered to herself.

In fact, despite them, she always said that her years of scrubbing oil barrels were some of the best of her life, because, for once, she had steady money to buy what food was available.

At first, she rode to work on the overhead railway. Then, when she found a house in Dingle at a controlled rent, she was able to walk to work.

Patrick was irritated to death that he then had to take the overhead railway, in reverse, to get to his fire station near the Pier Head. He grumbled even more when the line was damaged a number of times by the heavy bombing, and he had to switch to buses, which charged higher fares.

The new house, which led straight off the street, had a parlour with a small fireplace and a kitchen-living room with a large kitchen range. There were three little bedrooms upstairs, and Ellie was amazed
when Martha told her, on the Sunday they moved in, that the smallest room would be for her alone.

‘Soon as we can get a little mattress for yez,' she promised.

At first, Ellie was silent at the idea. Then she began to whine. ‘I don't want to be by meself. Why can't I be with you?'

‘You're going to be a big girl soon – and you'll like to have your own place.'

‘No, I won't. I want to go home.'

‘Ach, don't be stupid. This is your home, today – now!' Martha had had a bad day and was growing irritable. ‘Shut up, afore I give you something to cry about.'

Ellie backed away, then turned and clattered down the bare staircase. In the tiny hall, she hesitated and then ran through the open front door into the street to find her brothers.

The street was unfamiliar and strangers turned to stare at the child's sudden exit.

Joe found her silent and miserable, squatting by the side of the tiny doorstep, the front door slammed shut behind her by Martha.

‘Come on, and explore with Number Nine and me,' he said cheerfully.

Behind the house was a small, brick-lined back yard. At the end of it in a shed was a flush lavatory,
which Joe demonstrated to her. She was scared by the noise of the flush.

On the Sunday night of their removal, the vast empty space of their new dwelling hit Martha, Patrick and the children so forcibly that they all huddled together, without complaint, on their solitary mattress which had been temporarily dragged into the parlour. Martha saw an immediate problem in that she had no blackout curtain big enough for the little bow window.

She felt herself suddenly bereft of the support of Auntie Ellen, Kitty, Sheila, Helen and Ann, and Alice, on all of whom she had relied to keep an eye on her children: the reality hit her like an icy draught, and she shivered.

And I'm the one what will be blamed by Patrick for anything what goes wrong, she decided dismally. And I don't have nobody to turn to.

When Patrick and Joe went together back to the court to return the borrowed handcart on which they had moved their scant belongings, and the younger children had gone out on their own exploration, she sat on the bottom step of the staircase and cried.

She cried not only for her old friends, but also for Brian, Tommy, Kathleen, Lizzie, Colleen and even for naughty Bridie. For all the communication
she had with them, they might as well be dead, like Colleen, she sobbed.

Despite the triumphs of a better house and a better-paying job, for the moment she lost completely her usual sturdy optimism.

Without the sense of being enclosed safely in a tight group of friends and family, she felt naked in a cruel world.

‘Jaysus! I don't know how I'll fill all the emptiness,' she whimpered to herself, as she remembered with longing the cosy living room of the O'Reillys and their many kindnesses to her. ‘It must have taken them all their life to get together a home like that; I'll never manage it. And, dear Holy Mother, I'm so tired. I wish this bloody war were over.'

She dragged herself to her feet, meaning to go to make herself a cup of tea. Then she remembered that she had used up all her tea, and would not get a fresh ration until Monday.

‘Blast them Jerries!' she muttered, as she heated a cup of hot water on the kitchen's ancient gas stove.

She was quite glad to scuttle off to work the next morning, just to be amongst people, even if nobody spoke to her, except to give an order. You could always get a mug of tea from the canteen.

1965

A week after Sheila's arrival at the home, Martha and she were sitting up in their respective beds, still gossiping, while they drank their illicit cups of tea: Martha had prevailed on Angie to bring an additional mug for Sheila.

‘A cuppa tea is a real comfort,' she had pleaded, and Angie agreed. She hoped that she would not be dismissed for breaking rules before she found another job: Matron was, every day, becoming more dogmatic and bad-tempered.

‘The evening aide – Freda, isn't it? She said last night, when you was dozing, as Angie's going to leave us,' reported Sheila, after draining her cup.

Martha clapped her cup down on top of the commode. ‘Oh, Mother of God, say it isn't so.
What will we do? Sheila, if we're left to Dorothy and that Freda – and that awful Mrs Kelly woman wot sleeps all night and never hears you call – you could die and they wouldn't care.'

Sheila nodded agreement. ‘I feel sick about it meself,' she said.

Martha's voice quivered, as she went on, ‘I can't blame her, though. Angie is too tired to even tip a bloody wall bin, poor kid.'

Sheila sighed and hummed tunelessly, as she considered this. ‘Dunno that we can do anything,' she replied finally. ‘Maybe they'll find another Angie.'

‘Humph. I doubt it. Angie is real smart – and she feels for yez. I wish I could give her a nice goodbye present, if she's really leaving.'

‘Well, couldn't we?'

‘Sheila, we don't have no money. And if we had it, how would we buy her anything? We're stuck here – in bed.'

‘What you mean? No money? We got pocket money.'

Martha slowly turned herself in order to see Sheila better. ‘Pocket money?' she queried, absolutely amazed.

‘Yeah. They take your old age pension to pay this Home. But you're supposed to get a bit every week
out of it for “insensuals” – you know, what I mean. Buy yourself a new nightie or a newspaper or some sweeties.

‘In all the time I was in hospital, I got me full pension; me friend saw to it for me. Hospital was under National Health – didn't have to pay a penny for that. Used to buy meself magazines to read, from a woman who came round with a pushcart to sell them – and she'd get you books from the library.'

She paused to rescue one of her supporting pillows which was about to fall off her bed. She wobbled perilously for a moment as she shoved it close to her side. ‘I was expecting to be paid me bit yesterday, but nobody bring it or tell me it was there for me.'

Martha was dumbfounded. She slowly got out of bed and went to her friend, to tuck the pillow in more firmly: without extra support, Sheila found it difficult to balance herself when sitting upright. She finally said, ‘I got a widow's pension, and, of course, I were working – cleaned a school after the men returned from the war and wanted their jobs back in the petrol installation.

‘I don't know what happened about the pension after I were took into hospital. I thought I'd collect the arrears when I come out of here: never
dreamed I'd never get better and be stuck here in bed for ever.' She paused to consider this, and then continued, ‘I never thought about me pension being used to pay for me to be here. I weren't never told anything about it being paid to Matron. I suppose it must have been written down in all the papers that They made me sign – with a cross, of course.

‘You see I can't read or write, so I had to trust the ladies who arranged to put me in here.'

‘You can't read or write? Hmm. Well, I can. I'll ask Matron,' promised Sheila. ‘She'll know.'

‘She's never been up here to see us since Pat died. And you'd better be careful what you say. Make even a small nuisance of yourself and you'll be made to take pills to keep you quiet; Angie told me once.' Martha nodded knowingly.

‘I've heard that about other places,' Sheila responded slowly. ‘To think of it! Me sister come all the way from London to find a place for me, and she chose this one 'cos it's got a name for being well run, and, what's more important, they had a vacant bed. I'm sure she never thought about me being drugged for speaking up.'

Martha snorted. ‘Well, she's right in a way. They clean the place regular and the meals come OK. But that's it.' Martha's idea of cleanliness was not
very great. She went on to say, ‘But the staff is on the go all the time. Only Angie tries to find time to talk to yez.

‘What drives me mad, Sheila, is that there's nothing to do. You can't even walk around for a bit to get yourself strong without being ticked off and brought back to bed.'

Sheila ignored Martha's last remark: without legs, you were in no shape to walk.

‘Do you ever get any visitors?' she inquired. ‘One of them could buy whatever we said for Angie. We could ask one of them to talk to Matron about our pocket money to pay for it.'

‘Sheila, I don't have no visitors. Me sister and her family I were in touch with was moved out to Norris Green. Last time I saw her was when I visited her once, during the war, and I've never heard a word since then.